


chemicals kickin' in

by quixotesque



Category: Black Panther (2018)
Genre: Dirty Talk, Established Relationship, Frottage, Future Fic, Grinding, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-20
Updated: 2018-11-20
Packaged: 2019-08-26 18:41:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16686853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quixotesque/pseuds/quixotesque
Summary: T’Challa has always known that long days and late nights are a routine part of a king’s life, but knowing has done little to make the reality of scattered sleep and an ever-increasing workload more palatable.What does make it more palatable is something else entirely, the most enchanting view in a nation replete with enchanting views: N’Jadaka and the lazy, beautiful, bronze sprawl he typically makes on the couch set against the wall of T’Challa’s office.





	chemicals kickin' in

**Author's Note:**

> behold, this is a my-laptop-isn't-working-so-i-wrote-sappy-sex-on-an-older-also-kinda-faulty-laptop-instead-to-cheer-myself-up fic. pls enjoy!
> 
> title is from "animal" by neon trees.

T’Challa has always known that long days and late nights are a routine part of a king’s life, but knowing has done little to make the reality of scattered sleep and an ever-increasing workload more palatable.

What does make it more palatable is something else entirely, the most enchanting view in a nation replete with enchanting views: N’Jadaka and the lazy, beautiful, bronze sprawl he typically makes on the couch set against the wall of T’Challa’s office.    

Sometimes, they simply share space. N’Jadaka sits in silence, reading a book from T'Challa's shelves or on his tablet. On rarer occasions, he’s asleep by the time T’Challa rises from his desk, brow peacefully smoothed out and locs scattered messily and T’Challa neatens them, brushing them away from N’Jadaka’s temple to press his lips there like a full stop to mark the end of their night.

Other times, they talk. They deftly pick apart the proposals on T’Challa’s table, traversing between their disagreements until they find the smooth, shining intersections where their thoughts neatly lace together and hold strong, their seemingly contrary minds revealing themselves to be the two complementary halves of the same impeccable machine. N’Jadaka smirks at him during those moments, a smirk that means,  _Who would’ve thought we’d make a good team_.T’Challa’s answer is always the same:  _I did. I asked you to marry me, didn’t I._

But his favorite nights tend to be the ones where N’Jadaka decides he’s gone long enough without T’Challa’s hands on him and he slips in between the holos dangling around the table, slinking onto T’Challa’s lap, turning T’Challa’s token, half-spoken protests into ash with a hot kiss.

“You work so hard,” N’Jadaka says tonight, a whisper against T’Challa’s lips. His hands are a comfortable cradle for T’Challa’s jaw, thumbs stroking over stubble. “You push yourself a lot. I know you can handle it. That you gotta do it for our people. But that don’t mean you don’t need to relax a little now and then.”  

“Is that what you’re doing?” T’Challa says, amused, keeping his voice similarly low. “Helping me relax, not distracting me?” He parts N’Jadaka’s loose robe some more to lightly stroke the skin just above the band of N’Jadaka’s sleep pants, where it’s still so soft and undisturbed by scars. 

“You’re clearly overworked if you can’t tell the difference between the two,” N’Jadaka says, smiling slyly, leaning in and erasing the minuscule gap between them with that mouth that’s pure intoxication. T’Challa lets himself fall under its sway, the soft graze of N’Jadaka’s tongue against his easily stirring a bloom of something sweet and steady all along his spine.

There’s nothing of significance beyond this little cocoon they’ve constructed with their bodies. It’s a private world kept warm by their mingling breath, kept steady by the arms T’Challa loops around N’Jadaka’s waist. All T’Challa can feel is heat: the heat of N’Jadaka’s mouth, the heat of his body, the heat of his cock thickening against T’Challa’s belly. The heat of T’Challa’s own skin, burning with soft arousal.

N’Jadaka’s breathing is deeper when he pulls away, cheeks gently flushed. T’Challa brushes his mouth over them to feel for himself the warmth he brings out of N’Jadaka.

“You know what they say,” N’Jadaka says, “about all work and no play. You need a -- reward.”

“A reward, you say?”

“Mm. Oughta reward yourself with something good. You the King; the King should have his every need catered to. He should always be... _satisfied_.” Low and breathy, siren-like words. 

T’Challa’s cock jerks in the confines of his trousers. “And are you my something good, N’Jadaka? Here to satisfy my every need?”

“You saying I don’t already?”

“Ah, did I? No, I couldn’t have. I wouldn’t dare.”

“Smart man,” N’Jadaka says and slots their mouths together once more, pulling them back into another round of a luxurious, almost achingly slow sharing of breath. T’Challa forgets the world again until N’Jadaka takes hold of his hands, encourages them to cup around the fullness of N’Jadaka’s ass. “Lemme give you some of that reward you deserve,” he says, shifting on T’Challa’s lap, bringing their cocks into alignment, and T’Challa jolts with a groan, almost drops his head back at the slow, dirty grind of N’Jadaka’s hips.  

"Yeah, I thought you'd like that." Placing a hand on T’Challa’s nape, the other on T’Challa’s shoulder, N'Jadaka grinds down again and again, taking the sharp, crackling friction between them and artfully dragging it out into finer, rawer increments.

T’Challa’s cock throbs under the deliberate presses. His skin prickles, over-heated. He grips N’Jadaka’s ass tighter. “This is more than the five-minute break I agreed to--”

“Shh, let me,” N’Jadaka murmurs, nudging his nose against T’Challa’s. “Just enjoy this. Feel what I’m doin’, baby. ‘S all you gotta do.”

The sultry roll of N’Jadaka’s hips is unfaltering and T’Challa’s mind drifts back to some of the best mornings they’ve shared together, where he groans awake to find N’Jadaka on top of him, already hot and wet around T’Challa’s cock, and there’s no need for words between them, just the fluidity of N’Jadaka’s body and the languid bursts of ecstacy it brings, their eventual climaxes washing over them almost leisurely.

“Do you feel me, T’Challa? Hmm?”

“Everywhere,” T’Challa breathes out, sweeping his palms up and over the firm, scarred planes of a body made for battle, stroking N’Jadaka’s spine, the ladders of his ribs, with a tender touch because T’Challa knows this is also a body made to be loved.

“So hard for me already. I’ve barely started.”

“You know what you do to me.”

The Herb propels the speed of his reactions, but T’Challa suspects N’Jadaka would have affected him like this anyway, setting his nerves alight with every touch, no matter how small.  

N’Jadaka’s smile is heavy with smug delight. “Yeah, I do.” His hips are a perfect synergy of pressure and rhythm against T’Challa, the flow to his body easy, precise, as if he’s made of shifting vibranium sand, and the scraping pleasure arcing along T'Challa's cock claws up the rest of him. “You like that? That feels good, don’t it?”

“I wish I was already inside you,” T’Challa says, digging his fingers into N’Jadaka’s thighs, forcibly burying the impulse to curl his hands there more securely, tip N’Jadaka back onto the desk and not let him up until T’Challa’s had his fill. “I hate that I haven't had the time.”

N’Jadaka makes a sound husky from his own need. “Fuck, I know. I bet you been missing my hole real bad. Ain’t right that you been too busy to pound me loose the past few nights.”

“No, it isn’t right,” T’Challa agrees, guttural, and slips a hand under the band of N’Jadaka’s trousers to touch hot, smooth skin. He could never live without these things now -- the tightness of N’Jadaka’s body that T’Challa likes to pry open with tongue and fingers and cock, the soft velvet grip of his hole always so desperately clutching at T’Challa towards the end like he doesn’t ever want to let go, be empty. The way he sinks his teeth into his own lip to hold back his sounds until he can’t, until he has to let them loose, all his ragged moans and gasps, because T’Challa is loving him too well. “I’m going to spend this weekend between your legs. You won’t be leaving our bedroom.”

“I won’t leave your dick,” N’Jadaka promises in return, punctuating it with a particularly precise rock of his hips and speaking over T’Challa’s long groan, “Gonna bury you balls deep in me and work you so goddamn sweet, how I always do. Make you lose your fucking mind. I know how much you need that.”

“I’ll always need you. I breathe for you, N’Jadaka.”   

“Shit, baby, when you say things like that--” There’s a slight shake in N’Jadaka’s voice. Something more special and precious than lust flickering through his naked expression. 

T'Challa understands. "I know,” he says. N’Jadaka’s robe is falling off of one shoulder and T'Challa presses his face against the revealed skin, tongue wandering over the warmth, trying to taste the fever that must be sparking beneath N’Jadaka’s skin as surely as it’s sparking beneath T’Challa’s. He dips his head lower, licks sloppily over a dark nipple, and N’Jadaka’s moan is a hushed, delicate noise in his throat that turns into a sharp intake of breath when T’Challa roughly takes the tight little bud in mouth.

N’Jadaka’s hands hastily move to curl around T’Challa’s jaw, guiding his face back up, and they’re locking lips again, sliding back into a seamless loop of wet kisses, chasing each other, smudging heat and spit and their desperate groans between them, N’Jadaka rubbing himself against T’Challa even faster, losing his precision, and T’Challa growls, “That’s it, satisfy me, satisfy your king, you're what I deserve,” into the humid space between their mouths.

“Fuck,” N’Jadaka pants out. “Need you so fucking bad, T, shoulda just got myself ready and climbed on your dick when I got here.”

“Why didn’t you,” T’Challa says. “Next time, you will,” he says, firmer, and N’Jadaka agrees quick and with an eager shiver. Each rough, snug press of their cocks reverberates through T’Challa like sharp flares, makes N'Jadaka shudder, shoving them one step closer to the cracking apart that only happens at each other’s hands.

“T’Challa, I...” N’Jadaka doesn’t finish, thrusting down instead, pressing his forehead tightly against T’Challa’s. “Yeah, that’s -- fuck, you close? You gon’ give me all that come that belongs to me?”

“Just a little more,” T’Challa says, squeezing the ass that belongs to him also, “and you can have it all--”

“Yeah, I want all you got,” N’Jadaka says, sliding his mouth to press it against T’Challa’s ear. “It’s all mine, but you know, don’t you--"

"Know what?"

"You know the only place I ever want you to come--” the edge closer now, T’Challa tensing, a clench in his belly, and N’Jadaka is saying, “The only place is inside me--"

"Always inside you."

"Always, so--” and suddenly N'Jadaka's gone.

His perfect warmth, perfect weight, the perfect little world of heat and pleasure they’d constructed with themselves gone from T’Challa’s lap. T’Challa instinctively reaches for him, but N’Jadaka laughs through his heavy pants, continues stepping away, his spit-slick lips curved with wicked mirth.

“N’Jadaka, what--”

“Consider  _that_ incentive to finish up here fast and get back to our bedroom.”

“Incen--get back here,” T’Challa demands, though he doesn’t rise to pull N’Jadaka back over like he easily could. "Finish what you started.”

N’Jadaka shakes his head, grinning. “Nah, you still got work to do tonight. We was only meant to take a five-minute break, remember?”

“You’re playing with fire,” T’Challa says, voice raw-edged, dropping an octave. He feels electrified. “I’m going to make you pay when I get my hands on you.”

It does nothing but turn N'Jadaka's eyes hot with interest. “That's what I like to hear. I’m countin’ on you to come through on that, T." Without spending any effort to fix his disheveled state and make himself presentable, N'Jadaka darts off, the door shutting on his rough, barking laughter. 

T’Challa can only watch him go, stunned. He stares at the closed door, waiting, wondering. N'Jadaka doesn't return.

T'Challa leans back in his chair. Stares some more.

Then his own laughter bubbles out of him, incredulous laughter. Exasperated. _Fond_.  

Pulling out the diagrams he’d been examining before N’Jadaka’s beguiling distraction, T’Challa finds his focus freshly sharpened despite -- or perhaps  _because_ of the unfulfilled buzz in his body, its hungry, churning murmur of N’Jadaka’s name. He thinks of what's waiting for him in the bedroom they share, the weekend ahead, the sweet revenge he’s going to exact upon his beautiful menace, and he returns to work, so that it can all arrive faster.


End file.
